


Master

by Pyrasaur



Category: Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M, POV Second Person, Power Dynamics, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-14
Updated: 2008-05-14
Packaged: 2017-10-14 21:40:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyrasaur/pseuds/Pyrasaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Say nothing, because your stare is plenty and his eyes are still wide and sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Master

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a kinkmeme prompt: _So, anon... I want Gant/Edgeworth. Sexytiems with **consenting** Worthy_

     Usher him in, with a swept arm and a smile. He accepts -- his winter-morning eyes dart on you, and he says nothing.

     Close the door. Lock it fast, savour the office quiet, taste what's to come. Turn, and watch him, and let the fire stir as he matches your stare: he's not afraid.

     Walk closer, king of your domain. Stand achingly close because he lets you, and smile down at him, at your reflection in his eyes. Feel his shudder in the air.  
     Ask him how he wants it. Purr soft.  
     Expect his jaw tightening, that thick hesitation. His voice grates husky and he tells you -- no games.

     You wouldn't deceive him, would you? Smile. Curl your hand, and brush under his chin because you're abuzz with the thought, because he's staring with naked want.  
     Pull away, just barely. Nod toward his pants; imagine what's beneath them. Tell him to loosen his belt and, of course, he does.

     Reach for the cuff of your glove, and stop when he asks you -- in a breathless mutter -- to leave them on. Smile, and oblige. How deliciously sick.

     Lay a hand on his shoulder. Turn the boy around, bend him over the desk, firm because he wouldn't resist you. Run fingers down his back, feel his body through the suit jacket. Hook a finger in his trousers, and draw them down, and run your gloved hand full and generous on the curve of his ass. Leather slides on skin. He's snow-pale and beautiful, his breathing thick against the wood.

     Slide a hand into your pocket, find the bottle. You've known this would come. Flick the cap. Free yourself to the cool air, and pour until the whole length glistens -- he's a pretty toy, don't break him yet.

     Tower over him. Savour this moment, spreading him further with devouring hands, pressing steady in. He chokes a cry -- he's sinfully tight, he takes every slow inch. Draw a breath, ground yourself.

     Bend over him, pin him sure beneath your chest. Move, slow and building; growl by his ear what a good boy he is, and drink in his answering whimper. He tilts back for you, he needs this.

     Rise, and grip those wide shoulders -- lord over him. Thrust, and revel in the slick friction. His thighs spread. He loves it and he trembles under you, hands fisting against the desk. Hold tight, speed up, drag a gasp out of him and listen to the slap of your body against his.  
     Ask if he likes that, a hard thrust between each word. Ask if he wants more, hiss it like an oath.  
     He presses reply, arching back for you, meeting you. Grab his hips. Take him rougher, rock him with each thrust. Sweat under your suit and relish this, each strike of your hips against his ass, his panting as you take him to the hilt, again and again. Breathe the smell in, throw your head back and glory in it. Swell toward your peak, and hear your name in his strangled voice and yes, drive into him, _yes_.

     Drift back to vision, feel his squirm under you. Your pulse still thunders as you lift him, pull him to your chest and thrust once more, wrap gloved hand around his cock and stroke so he shudders. Keep going -- he bucks, and cries out, and your toy is helpless and beautiful.

     Wait a moment -- you'll remember his weight, his heave for breath. Slide free. Gather yourself, and watch him straighten at the belt buckle's noise, and reach for his own clothes. Trained well, isn't he?

     He turns. You're already smiling. Say nothing, because your stare is plenty and his eyes are still wide and sure.

     He won't tell anyone; he's too smart and you're too clever. Remember, and run your hands over the memory. Imagine his bruises. Imagine his need and the keen of his voice, and smile.

     He'll be back.


End file.
